On Sorting
by BiJane
Summary: A quick piece from the mind of the Sorting Hat, and a much darker take on its role.


**Had an hour free and nothing to do. This was the result. Enjoy!**

No one ever asked.

They saw him maybe once a year, then forgot about him until the next school year began. Then there were cheers, and then they listened. And then they forgot, again.

He spent his days curled up on a dusty shelf. Dumbledore had done his best, he really had, but it still wasn't much of a life. The song was decided upon in maybe a week. Two if it was a time of great trouble.

Then he had but to wait. In truth, he didn't feel boredom. He remembered it though: he was a Hat, not a living being, yet all the minds he'd touched, all the magic that made him, they added up.

He didn't even know why he called himself 'he'. He blamed Godric: his first wearer, who'd imparted much of himself.

No one spoke to him. Occasionally Dumbledore might murmur a word, and there was much to hear lurking out of sight in that office, but it wasn't much.

It was almost a pity.

He could regale them with tales of Godric Gryffindor, and the Founders. Stories long forgotten, lost to history. His mind was the only place that knowledge resided.

He could have helped them with Tom Riddle. He could describe every inch of the boy's mind: and had a fair picture of the world from all the young heads that had worn him.

He'd known, long before Harry had even been born, of Horcruxes, and the items Riddle would have chosen. It was rather obvious. No one thought to ask if he had any ideas: he who knew the boy Voldemort's mind better than, likely, the Dark Lord did himself.

Then again, he might not have answered, even if asked. He had morality: another gift from Godric. To break a rule for a good reason, only lead to breaking it for a bad reason.

Minds were private places.

Well, they were meant to be. They weren't to him.

Perhaps the school and Ministry would be more wary if they knew he recalled, in pristine detail, every mind he touched. Perhaps they'd be afraid if they knew Lord Voldemort's mind, and the minds of numerous Death Eaters, lurked within recesses of craggy, aged leather.

He had only their younger minds, true, but often those minds were all he needed. More than people realized had been decided by the age he was worn.

He hadn't been wrong yet. He could say, with complete confidence, who would go on to become forces for good, who would fade into obscurity, and who would shake the foundations of magical society to its core from sheer terror.

There had been a few of those, just last year. The Sorting Hat had entertained himself for months after, imagining the feats they would achieve.

People liked to imagine children as innocent. He, above all others, knew that wasn't the case. They forgot Tom Riddle had already split his soul by the time he left Hogwarts.

Maybe he should have warned people. It was within his capabilities: a dusty cough, and whoever was the headmaster at the time would approach, and he could warn of the students destined for darkness.

But then, he had morality. That, he was sure of. Though his ability to feel boredom might be dampened, as were his abilities to feel pain, or take pride, he trusted in the morality that Godric himself so prized.

He wouldn't share the innermost secrets of those who had worn him.

He would wait. He would watch. He would hear tales from the minds of children.

And he would Sort. That had, and would always be, his function. To be worn, to see all that could be seen, and decide where a child might best feel at home. Not only that, but Sort them to the place that they could best realize their potential.

Where would they be able to achieve the most? Where might they form works they'd think unattainable if sorted elsewhere?

Tom Riddle had been many things. So many acted as though the Houses were incompatible: that wasn't the case.

Those who were brave, could also be cunning. Those who were chivalrous, could also be kind. Those who were daring, might also be intelligent. Those who were ambitious, might be loyal. And cunning so often meant cleverness.

The Hat had little doubt Riddle might have been at home in Ravenclaw. His thirst for knowledge, albeit dark knowledge, was typical of that house. Hufflepuff also would have been, as was its wont, welcoming. Riddle prized loyalty above many traits.

Gryffindor, above all, would have been a sanctuary for the boy named Tom Riddle. It took a great deal of nerve to attempt a dark ritual that even grown wizards spoke of in hushed tones; much less attempt it untutored, unsupervised, as a child. His courage would have been celebrated.

There were four homes open to Riddle. The Hat had called out Slytherin, however, and the path of history was set.

He didn't regret that. He barely remembered regret; those who wore him were often too young to have much experience with it.

He did as he was told, however. He maximized potential. Tom Riddle had gone so very far, in Slytherin. Harry Potter might have gone further, if he hadn't chosen otherwise.

If the Hat was to say it had a regret, that might be it. When Godric had proposed him, it had been Helga who made one last request: that should the student make a conscious decision, the Hat was to respect it. Even if they would fit in far better in another House, choice trumped all.

If that had not been made the case, the Hat could only wonder at what might have happened. All the lost potential galled him, as much as he was capable of feeling.

He had urged as much as he was able. Harry Potter, the Slytherin. He would not have fought the Dark Lord, and as the Chosen One prophesised, none else could have vanquished Riddle. That had so much potential. So much would be achieved.

And yet Harry had made his choice, and Riddle's story was at an end.

At the distant corners of the Hat's memory, the mind of his second wearer, the Founder Salazar, sighed.

That was how the Sorting Hat spent the year. Alone in the darkness it could not see, waiting, and contemplating. He found himself looking forward to the time the Sorting would come again.

So many minds to read: so many futures to feel, and shape.

He wondered if there would be any more new Riddles this year. If there were, he knew what to do.


End file.
